GB84

by David Peace

  They could swing in the wind now.

  Just like Terry. They had left Terry on his own to handle the sequestrators and the receiver now. The legal actions. The day-to-day finances. The requests for this and the requests for that. The President had asked only that nothing further be written down. That all their existing files and records be shredded –

  The paper trail burnt.

  Terry liked that idea. He had actually been the one who’d suggested it –

  Or had it been Diane?

  But the cash kept on coming in. In briefcases and boxes, in suitcases and sacks. From home and abroad, from near and far. And the cash kept on going out. In briefcases and boxes, in suitcases and sacks. Home and abroad, near and far –

  Terry sat in his office under the portrait of the President, surrounded by mountains of money. Len and the Denims brought it up from the cars and the taxis, from the trains and the planes. Terry wrote out receipts in pencil for the donors to burn –

  Terry doled out the funds –

  Forty-five thousand pounds for Yorkshire. Thirty-five thousand for South Wales. Twenty-five thousand for Durham. For Scotland and for Kent –

  For wages. For rent. For food. For kids. For bills. For transport. For picketing –

  Twenty thousand. Fifteen thousand. Ten thousand. Five thousand –

  The money-go-round never stopped. Len and the Denims brought it up –

  The Tweeds took it back down in twos; others came up from the areas personally.

  Terry’s fingers smelt of money. Terry’s hands smelt of money –

  Diane liked that. The smell of money. The scent of cash –

  ‘The world is our oyster,’ she liked to say and sniff him like a dog –

  Like a dog.

  Terry checked the phone was working. Click-click. Terry had an erection again –

  Terry locked the door. Terry went back to his desk. Terry opened a box –

  Money. Money. Money. Always funny –

  Terry filled his briefcase. Terry shut and locked it. Terry erased this figure here. That figure there. Terry went back to the door. Terry listened. Terry unlocked his door. Terry checked the corridor. Terry got his coat. Terry put his briefcase under his arm. Terry took it down to his car. Terry put it in the boot with the suitcases. Terry –

  ‘That where you keep the bodies then, is it, Comrade?’

  Terry shut the boot. Terry turned round. Terry dropped his keys –

  Bill Reed picked them up off the floor of the car park. Bill said, ‘Butter fingers.’

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Terry. ‘Sneaking up like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Bill. ‘I know how jumpy you must be in your position.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Terry. ‘My position?’

  ‘Just the responsibility of it all,’ said Bill. ‘The family. The fame–’

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Terry again.

  ‘I want to know what you keep locked in the boot of your car, Comrade.’

  ‘It’s none of your business,’ said Terry.

  Bill smiled. Bill nodded. Bill stepped forward. Bill kneed Terry in his balls –

  Terry collapsed.

  Bill opened the boot. Bill said, ‘Planning a few days away with the wife, were we, Comrade?’

  Terry lay on the floor of the car park. Terry held his balls. Terry blinked.

  Bill opened up the suitcases. Bill whistled.

  Terry stood up. Terry pushed Bill away from the boot. Terry said, ‘Fuck off.’

  Bill pushed Terry back. Bill followed him. Bill poked him in the chest and said, ‘You’d better start talking now, Comrade. Tell me what all that fucking money’s for.’

  Terry stared at him. Terry took a deep breath. Terry said, ‘It’s for the President.’

  ‘Fuck off, Winters,’ said Bill. ‘What’s it doing in the boot of your car, then?’

  ‘The Union is buying the President’s house,’ said Terry. ‘That’s the money.’

  Bill Reed shook his head. Bill said again, ‘So what’s it doing in there?’

  ‘Both the Union and our President are under legal attack, or hadn’t you noticed?’

  Bill Reed grabbed Terry again. Bill said, ‘Fuck off, Winters. You’re a liar.’

  ‘It’s Union money for the President,’ said Terry. ‘I’m putting it in a trust. OK?’

  Bill Reed stared at Terry Winters. Bill Reed let him go. Bill Reed shook his head.

  ‘What?’ said Terry. ‘You still don’t believe me? Ask him yourself –’

  Bill shook his head again. Bill turned round to look behind him –

  The President, Paul and Len were walking across the car park.

  The President nodded at Terry and Bill. The President said, ‘Evening, Comrades.’

  Terry and Bill nodded back. Terry and Bill said, ‘Evening, President.’

  ‘You two coming to the rally, are you, then?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Of course,’ said Terry. ‘We were just waiting to follow you.’

  Bill Reed nodded. Bill Reed said, ‘Looking forward to it.’

  ‘Take the motorway to Leeds,’ said Len. ‘Then the A1. If you can keep up.’

  Terry Winters and Bill Reed smiled and watched the Jaguar pull out.

  Bill turned to Terry. Bill chucked him his keys. Bill said, ‘Do give my apologies.’

  Terry closed the boot of the car. Terry locked it. Terry opened the car door.

  ‘And remember,’ Bill shouted back, ‘all property is theft, Comrade.’

  Terry got into the car. Terry slammed the door. Terry drove up to Durham –

  He stopped once at Scotch Corner to call Diane, but she had already checked out.

  Terry stood at the side of the stage with Len. The President took deep breaths. Then the President said, ‘I believe we are in crunch times. I believe we have now entered into a phase that will be the final and decisive stage, if our members remain solid –

  ‘For if we retain our solidarity, we can bring the Coal Board and the government to the realization that there has to be a negotiated settlement.’

  There was no talk of victory. There was no standing ovation –

  There was no applause.

  Peter

  go picketing any more. Be fucked if government did start moving coal from pit heads to power stations. Not be able to do a thing about it – Not properly. These parcels are supposed to have sausage, some chops, some liver and bacon in them, said Mrs Kershaw. Past three parcels all I’ve had is bloody mince. But Mrs Wilcox, she’s had sausage. She’s had chops. She’s had liver. She’s had bacon – I’m sorry, I said. I’ll talk to ladies who are parcelling it all up – Don’t bother, she said. They just look out for their mates. I know that sort – I nodded. I wrote it all down – I said, I promise I’ll see what I can do – Bloody nothing, she said. That’s all you can do. This Union is a disgrace. Bloody disgrace. Eggs. Beans. Bread. Spaghetti. That’s all we ever bloody eat. For nigh on a year now. But I’ve seen them and I’ve seen you too, Peter Cox. Not losing any weight, are you? Not losing any sleep either, I bet – I wait for horses. Hooves. Batons – Bad day this one. In a bad week. Hundred and fifty walked back in at Kiveton on Monday. Hundred and fifty in one day. Lot of faces down Welfare said it all. Said, That’s it then. That’s us – Grim sight it was, on news. In snow and slush, frozen and starved back – That was truth of it. Frozen and starved back – Hurt it did, to see them walk up that lane in snow and sludge. Their plastic bags for bits of coal and thin old coats against the cold – Pickets didn’t say much to them. This was different now – These weren’t your pit idiots. Your shirkers and your arse-lickers. Your head-cases and big mouths – These were honest, decent, hard-working miners who you lived and worked beside. These were your mates with their plastic bags and thin coats in snow and sludge. Frozen and starved – It was a terrible sight. Heartbreaking – Board and government on same news telling us there’d be no more talks. No more concessions – Been three bl
oody months now since last negotiations. Lot of rumours again – Board said there were now hundred and fifty in at our pit. That they’d had sixty in last two weeks – It was horrible. You didn’t know who was scabbing and who wasn’t – Blokes would stand there and lie to your face. People were accusing each other at drop of a hat – Thing was, once someone was branded a scab they’d just think, Fuck it then, and in they went. Board and scabs were behind this – Picking on a whole street at a time. Getting majority back in. Isolating families who were still out. Pressuring them. Putting it about that they’d gone in when they hadn’t – Whole teams and all. Face teams. Headings teams – Phoning each other up. All-for-one-and-one-for-all type thing. Didn’t care what rest of folk thought as long as all team were agreed. I could see that – Had to work together. To trust each other – Few of scabs were even going about trying to organize returns. There was talk of Silver Birch and National Working Miners’ Committee coming up to speak to them. I went to Panel and it was same story at all other pits – Talk now of expulsion for Nottingham. An amnesty for miners sacked during dispute – I didn’t say anything. I just drove home – Mary was out at a meeting with Action Group. Our Jackie round at her mate’s house – Just me. I stuck kettle and news on. I sat down – Ministers were telling media that they ould let the strike run on until it collapsed – Telling us. Telling Peter Heathfield. Mick McGahey. Arthur Scargill – No more talks. No more negotiations. No more concessions. No more chances – I got up. I switched it off. I picked up paper. I put it down. I stood up again. I sat back down. I got up. I paced room – I felt like I had a bloody knife in me. I felt cold. Horrid inside. Bloody horrible – I paced and I paced. There were Mary’s scrapbooks on side. True History of Great Strike for Jobs. I picked them up. Early ones – Here we go. Here we go. Here we go – I turned pages. Those first few days in Sheffield – We will win. We will win. We will win – Mansfield rally. The Wakefield Gala. Orgreave – I put them down. I paced and I paced. I didn’t know what to do. I felt sick inside – Like I couldn’t get clean. Like I couldn’t get warm – I’d never felt anything like this in my life. I thought, You’re cracking up here. Be loony-bin for you now, old son – Mary and Jackie will come

  The Forty-seventh Week

  Monday 21 – Sunday 27 January 1985

  ‘More to the point,’ says the Jew, ‘how are you sleeping, Neil?’

  Neil Fontaine sets down the breakfast tray. Neil Fontaine says, ‘Like a baby, sir.’

  ‘So we’re waking four times a night and screaming blue murder for a suck on a tit and clean pair of jim-jams, are we, Neil?’

  Neil Fontaine pours the Darjeeling. Neil Fontaine says, ‘Exactly, sir.’

  ‘Exactly?’ laughs the Jew. ‘Very droll, Neil. Very droll indeed.’

  Neil Fontaine hands the Jew his morning tea and the day’s Times.

  The Jew is still in his dressing-gown. His slippers up on the sofa of his suite –

  He sips his tea and skims the paper and the telephone rings. Three times.

  Neil Fontaine picks it up. Click-click. Neil Fontaine says, ‘Mr Sweet’s suite?’

  He listens. He hands the phone to the Jew. He says, ‘The Minister, sir.’

  The Jew takes the phone with a smile and a wink. He says, ‘Good morning, sir.’

  The Jew listens. The Jew stops smiling. The Jew shouts, ‘Did fucking what?’

  *

  There were only three days to a week. There were only candles for lights –

  ‘– the CIA believe that the present spate of strikes in Britain has far more sinister motives than the mere winning of extra wages –’

  There were rings of tanks around all the major airports –

  ‘– we believe that the aim is to bring about a situation in which it would be impossible for democratic government to continue –’

  It was the State of Britain, 1974. It was a State of Emergency –

  ‘– you are restricted and squeamish on your own territory about doing the type of things that have to be done to track down and eliminate terrorists and subversives –’

  They prised Malcolm from the six-fingered fist. Put him back inside the belly –

  ‘– the CIA has agents operating on the insides of all the British labour unions. These are British nationals recruited by CIA case officers –’

  Back to work. Back to look. Back to listen –

  ‘– and for some time now we have been trying to convince successive British governments of the power of subversives within your trade union movement –’

  Back to learn –

  ‘– the present state of Britain makes it a troublemaker’s paradise –’

  To learn about adultery. Betrayal. Falsity. Infidelity. Perfidy. Treachery.

  *

  This was killing Neil. These death throes. This last, final rattle –

  The Suits from the Board and the Moderates from the Union have been talking –

  Talking. Talking. Talking –

  Mines have always closed on the grounds of exhaustion. Mines have always closed on the grounds of geology. Mines have also always closed on the grounds of –

  Many, many other things –

  Things the Suits and the Moderates have been talking about –

  Third-category things.

  The Suits and the Moderates have been talking so much they actually think they are making progress –

  The Board willing to compromise on the five threatened collieries, specifically. The Union ready to compromise on uneconomic collieries, generally –

  That’s what they’re saying. That’s what they’re telling everyone –

  Everyone who’s listening –

  The government and the TUC. The rest of the Board and the rest of the Union. The working miners and the striking miners. The press and the public –

  Telling everyone that negotiations were still possible –

  ‘Still possible,’ screams the Jew. ‘Over my dead fucking body!’

  The Jew will soon see about this –

  Two and a half billion pounds have been either spent or lost on the strike to date. Thousands of police and reserves have been mobilized. Thousands of miners arrested. Thousands and thousands of miners and their families have been forever branded scabs. Thousands of miners have chosen to break from the National Union of Mineworkers –

  One thousand eight hundred and forty abandoned the strike only yesterday –

  ‘And all for what?’ shouts the Jew. ‘All for fucking what, Neil?’

  The Jew picks up the telephone. Click-click. The Jew calls Downing Street –

  The Jew talks to the Prime Minister’s Chief Press Secretary –

  BB will put a spin on all this talking. BB will put a stop to all this talking –

  ‘So the government and the Board are just going to turn their backs on the very people who have kept the lights on this winter?’ the Jew asks BB –

  ‘Leave them to the lynch mobs of the Left? Is that their thanks? Their reward?’

  The Jew listens. The Jew laughs. The Jew says, ‘Thank you, BB, thank you.’

  The Jew puts down the telephone. The Jew applauds. The Jew looks up at Neil. ‘Looking very pensive there, Neil,’ says the Jew. ‘Not keeping you, am I?’

  *

  The Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends were saying it would all be over in a matter of days now. There was talk of conciliation. Light on the horizon. Talk of concessions. Historic compromises. The rumour up and down the coalfields. The end in sight –

  The much-whispered-of Yorkshire revolt dead in the bar of a Normanton WMC –

  Now was not the time to start scabbing. Not now, after all these months –

  All this pain –

  The Fat Man and his Fat Friends had come to put them all out of their misery. And the President knew now was the time. Now, after all these months –

  All these false dawns –

  The TUC put the twelve-point tentative draft agreement on the table before him.
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  ‘This Union is perfectly willing to have negotiations,’ the President told them. ‘This Union is not arguing that there should be preconditions or a set agenda –’

  The President knew this was not the time to start scrapping again. Not now –

  The light in the dark marked Exit. The light over Terry Winters.

  Terry looked at his watch. Clocks ticking. Terry said, ‘It’s time, gentlemen.’

  The Fat Man and his seven Fat Friends, the President and his last skinny mates, everyone put down the draft agreement. Everyone turned to look at Terry –

  Everyone nodded –

  Terry switched on the television in the corner of the room –

  TV Eye.

  ‘A lot of heavily loss-making pits will have to be shut down,’ she was saying. ‘Let’s not argue about the definition. Let’s just get it written down –

  ‘I want it dead straight. Honest and no fudging –’

  The President stood up. He walked slowly over to the television and turned it off. He took the twelve-point tentative draft agreement out of Terry’s hands –

  The President tore it into a thousand pieces. The President let them fall –

  The lights had finally gone out.

  *

  ‘Nothing short of total victory,’ shouts the Jew from the back of the Mercedes –

  The Jew has been asked to report for duty at Chequers this weekend. Tout suite. To report on his union within the Union. The mind games and the endgames –

  But there have been harsh words between the Chairman and the Minister –

  The one blaming the other. The other blaming the one –

  Their different agendas. Their different approaches. Their different games.

  The Jew has his own agenda. The Jew his own game to play. To play to win –

  ‘Negotiations now would represent a defeat for the Board and for the nation. For, inevitably, there would be further concessions, in whatever words they were disguised. The time for negotiated settlement has passed. The President of the NUM must accept, in advance of any talks and in writing, that the Board has the right to manage the industry and the right to close pits –