GB84

by David Peace

  ‘There must be no equivocation. No prevarication.

  ‘There are those among us, however, who call for bridges to be built over which their president can beat an elegant retreat. Those voices misunderstand the temper of the nation. That man challenged the authority of the state. That man boasted that he would do to this government what the miners had done to the Heath government. That man presided over unprecedented violence and intimidation, corruption and conspiracy –

  ‘The nation wants to see that man defeated and the nation will not easily forgive those who would be held responsible if defeat, whether by compromise or by fudge –

  ‘If defeat were snatched from the jaws of victory –

  ‘For nothing short of total victory is acceptable now,’ says the Jew.

  Neil Fontaine winds down his window. Neil Fontaine says, ‘Mr Stephen Sweet.’

  The officer steps back from the car. He gestures at the gates. The gates open –

  ‘So let us set our course for total victory and only total victory,’ shouts the Jew –

  The dead hand of Number 10 at the wheel

  Neil Fontaine drives up the long drive. Neil Fontaine parks before the front door –

  There are corpses in the trees. There are heads upon the posts.

  They are all stood on the gravel, waiting. Their mouths all open, laughing –

  King. Heseltine. Lawson. Ridley. Havers. Walker. Brittan. Tebbit.

  ‘You want a fucking picture?’ hisses the Help. ‘Round the fucking back.’

  Neil Fontaine starts the car again. He parks in the empty garage. He sits in the car. He stares through the windscreen. He sees the Prime Minister at the kitchen window –

  She is eating frozen shepherd’s pie. She is drinking cheap white wine –

  The corpses in the trees. The heads upon the posts –

  He smells the fumes. The rivers. The mountains.

  He hears the screams –

  Her blood and her skull.

  Peter

  home and find us in me socks. Drawing little faces on cornflakes like my Uncle Les – This one a copper. This one a picket. This one a copper. This one a picket – Little faces. Re-enacting Battle of Orgreave on kitchen table – That would be me. Mad Pete – I picked up phone. Click-click – I was going to call Derek. Tom. Johnny. David Rainer. Keith – I put it down again. I went upstairs – I laid down on bed. I closed my eyes – I look back. Wall of fucking water bearing down again – I opened my eyes again. I was thinking about my father – How he lived. How he died – He never had a prayer. I closed my eyes again – Water. Water – I opened them again. Straight off – Heart beating ten to dozen. Never had a fucking chance – I could hear Mary and Jackie downstairs. Hear kettle go on. Telly again. News again – I wanted to get up. I wanted to go down and see them – To say hello. To have a chat and a nice cup of tea – But I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t go down – Not let Mary and our Jackie see us like this. Not let them see me with tears down my face – This wall of fucking water bearing down again. I run – Difference a bloody day makes. A new day – Talks about talks were back on. Meeting set for Tuesday. Negotiations between our full Executive and Board. Even possibility that they’d talk about pay and overtime ban. Get it all sorted. Once and for all – Delegate Conference had been called to vote on whatever outcome of talks was. Lot of feeling both down at Welfare and up at Panel that it’d all be over by weekend – War of nerves, said Johnny. Tom laughed. He said, Well, mine can’t talk much bloody more, lad – Mine neither, I said. Dave Rainer nodded. He said, All be glad to hear then that we’re going ahead with Cortonwood tomorrow – Nice one, said Johnny. It’s a good time to show solidarity and strength, said Derek. With talks and everything. Let them know that there’s life in old dog yet – Not bothering with envelopes, said Dave. Just get as many as you can afford to send up there – Everyone nodded. Even me – I hadn’t been for it when it was suggested last week. Now, though, it felt good – Good to be doing something. Take your mind off talks and get you away from TV – I drove back down to Welfare and started to phone around. Click-click. Put teams together for cars. Had a feeling this would be last one. Lot of us did – There were them who weren’t that happy. Few that weren’t that keen on going back, you could see it in their eyes – Not because of any political motive or anything like that. Just didn’t want to go back underground – I knew how they felt. That time down with engineers, I’d shit myself – They’d had a taste of something else and they’d liked it. Liked it a lot – Blokes who’d worked down pit since they left school. Never known anything else – They’d had a taste of sun and air. Taste of a different life – They were coming up to me, asking us what I thought chances were of going back. Then they’d ask us about redundancy – Especially older ones. Blokes who were only months off retiring – I didn’t know what to say to them. Had a feeling there’d be a massive clampdown – Just depended what was said in London. How talks went – I went home. Mary and Jackie were still up. Had a crisp sandwich and a chat with them. Newsnight came on. Hopes still high of a settlement to end-strike by 11 February. Lot of talk now about amnesties for sacked miners. Board saying no way. That wasn’t helping. We all went up to bed none the wiser – I didn’t bother getting into my pyjamas. Had to be up again in three hour – I didn’t want to go to sleep, either. Didn’t want to close my eyes – I run. I run and run. I run again – I woke up. Heart going again. Sweating buckets. Shitting bricks – Mary looking at us. She said, You want a cup of tea, do you? I looked at clock by bed – I best be on my way, I said. I got up. Pulled my trousers over my long-johns. Extra jumper – I leant back over bed and give her a kiss goodbye. I said, I’ll see you later, love – Make sure you do, she said. I nodded – I knew she didn’t want me going to Cortonwood. But she knew why I was going. I kissed her again. I drove down to Welfare – Village dark. Village quiet – But I knew there were eyes watching in dark. Ears listening in quiet – Keith was already down there – I don’t want to miss this

  The Forty-eighth Week

  Monday 28 January – Sunday 3 February 1985

  The Right Honourable Member just could not keep away. Just couldn’t keep out –

  Of these shadows at the back, where the lights did not reach.

  His mouth moved faster and faster. Finger pointed harder and harder –

  He asked more and more questions.

  There was blood in Malcolm’s mouth. Blood in Malcolm’s ears –

  But Malcolm had more tapes. Many, many more tapes –

  From the shadows, where the lights did not.

  They would find more and more answers. Hear more and more tapes –

  And they would drown here –

  Here in the answers and the tapes. The shadows and the blood –

  These messages from the Dead. These tocsins for the Living.

  They had been pounding on its chest. Tick-tock. Banging on its bones –

  Mouth to mouth –

  The Labour Party. The TUC. Elements of the government and the Board –

  The kiss of life –

  The Union were to meet the Board for substantive negotiations. The Union and the Board would agree on an agenda to end the dispute by February 11. The Union would call a Special Delegate Conference. The weekend would bring resolution –

  But there were fresh wounds upon the headless torso that lay before them here –

  The Union insistent upon an amnesty for miners sacked during the dispute; the Prime Minister still insistent on written guarantees from the Union before talks –

  Mortal wounds –

  ‘It has become a purely political strike,’ Paul Hargreaves was telling them all. ‘And it is clear now that she is very involved in the running of the Coal Board’s business, countermanding an arrangement between a senior director and myself –

  ‘She has total involvement and is out to destroy this Union.’

  Terry watched Paul. Terry shook his head. Terry hated Paul –

  His
secret deals with his secret contacts. His secret talks in secret locations –

  He hated his naivety. He hated his self-importance. He hated his suspicions –

  Paul had finished his speech. Paul had sat down. Paul was staring at Terry –

  Terry started to cough. Terry started to scratch his arms. Terry made his excuses. Terry left them to their increasing talk of a return without settlement –

  Living to fight another day –

  Terry walked down the corridor. He went down the stairs. Terry left the building. He found a phone box. Terry picked up the receiver. Click-click. He dialled the number –

  They could pound and pound. Bang on and on –

  Terry said, ‘Clive Cook, please.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Cook is on a temporary leave of absence,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Perhaps I may be of assistance? To whom am I speaking?’

  Terry hung up. He stood in the phone box. Terry closed his eyes. He prayed –

  It had run and run but now it had collapsed, lying here before him –

  Flat out upon the floor. This body upon the shore. The beach soaked in blood. The blue waves stained red –

  But Terry Winters knew, dead was dead.

  *

  From the corner of the Euston Road and Warren Street. From Grosvenor Street and on to the Joint Services Intelligence Centre outside Ashford in Kent –

  They had sent Malcolm to Lisburn, Ulster –

  To the six-fingered fist that held and gripped. That squeezed and crushed until –

  Everything blurred. Everything merged. Distorted and faded –

  In the shadows at the back, where the truths and the lies, the promises and the threats, the voices and the silences, the prayers and the curses, became one –

  In Lisburn, Ulster –

  From there everything whispered. Everything echoed. Everything moaned –

  These voices from these shadows, these silences and spaces, these truths and lies, their promises and threats, Malcolm’s prayers and his curses –

  A deafening, deafening wall of horrible, horrible sounds –

  MI5. MI6. Special Branch. The RUC. The army and the SAS –

  Until everything became one long, long scream –

  One long, long scream of places and names, terror and treachery –

  Deny. The Bogside. Belfast. The Lower Falls. The Shankill Road. Chichester-Clark. Faulkner. Stormont. McGurk’s Bar. Bloody Sunday. Widgery. Bloody Friday. Direct Rule. Operation Motorman. Sunningdale. The Ulster Workers’ Council. Dublin. Monaghan. Guildford. Birmingham. The Miami Showband. Tullyvallen Orange Hall. Whitecross. Kingsmills. Mrs Marie Drumm. Captain Robert Nairac. The Ulster Unionist Action Council. La Mon Hotel. The Irish National Liberation Army –

  Directed or undirected, formal or casual, acknowledged or not –

  Sources and agencies; agents and informants; information and disinformation –

  Codes changed. Numbers changed. Names changed. Places changed –

  Tapes changed, but the job stayed the same –

  Home or away. Near or far. England or Rhodesia. Yorkshire or Ulster –

  The job stayed the same. Always the same –

  In the shadows. In the silences.

  *

  These are the most dangerous of days. The financial markets are in crisis and turmoil; seven billion pounds have been wiped off the value of shares; base rates have risen between 12 and 14 per cent. There have been calls for a national government. For a government of reconciliation to heal the divisions in the nation. Echoes from the dark days. The Prime Minister and her Cabinet have launched a television offensive –

  TV Eye. Weekend World. This Week, Next Week. A Week in Politics –

  The message is loud. The message is clear –

  No fudge. No forgiveness. No fudge. No forgiveness –

  Unmistakable. Unambiguous. Unequivocal –

  Explicit.

  The Jew stares at the TV. The Jew smiles at her face. But the Jew cannot focus –

  ‘– I do not want another round of talks to fail. I want them to succeed. I know there are many, many striking miners who want them to succeed too, so they can get back to work and who, I believe, would accept past procedures and would like to get back on that basis –’

  ‘The play’s the thing,’ mumbles the Jew. ‘The play within a play –’

  ‘– and I want them to go back. But I do not wish their hopes to be dashed by another round of talks, which are doomed to failure. It is because I want the talks to succeed that I do not want these talks to go ahead on a false basis –’

  ‘A Revenger’s Tale,’ mutters the Jew to himself. ‘A Revenger’s Tale.’

  Neil Fontaine could not agree more. But Neil can wait no more –

  He tucks up the Jew in his bed. He switches off the lights at the wall –

  ‘Sweet dreams, sir,’ he calls from the door of the fourth-floor suite –

  ‘He always does,’ whispers the Jew in the dark, to no one. ‘He always does.’

  Neil Fontaine takes the back way down the back stairs to leave by the back door. Neil had a message waiting for him this lunchtime. Three words –

  Trident Marine Limited –

  Neil let his fingers do the walking. Neil found it in the Yellow Pages –

  Queen Street Place, EC4 –

  Right under his fucking nose.

  Neil Fontaine changes his clothes. Neil Fontaine changes his car –

  He parks again. He watches again. He waits again.

  Neil Fontaine breaks into the third-floor offices of Trident Marine Limited.

  Neil Fontaine switches on his torch. Neil Fontaine shines a light –

  On their offices and their desks. On their letterheads and their directors –

  The offices and desks that they share. The letterheads and the directors –

  The senior civil servants. The Cabinet secretaries. The City bankers –

  The commanding officers of the British armed forces –

  Past. Present. And future –

  Friendships planted in foreign places –

  Malaya. Cyprus. Rhodesia. Ulster. Sheffield. Sizewell –

  Jupiter Securities runs Trident Marine. Trident dumps nuclear waste at sea –

  For the government. For them. For her.

  *

  The restaurant was quiet. Empty again. The chairs on the table. The orchestra gone –

  Malcolm put down his evening paper. He shook his head and smiled –

  The Right Honourable Member had referred the business to the Prime Minister.

  Malcolm traced circles. Loops. Rings with his finger –

  There was an ancient, enduring majesty to the annular –

  Like the fylfot.

  Peter

  one, he said. Might be last one – You just behave yourself, I told him. He laughed. He said, Be telling that to titheads and all, will you? That’s what I mean, I said. Just watch yourself. They’ll be thinking it might be last one and all. He nodded and we went inside. Lads started to arrive. Big Chris. Kev. Tim. Gary. John from Top. Fair few faces I hadn’t seen for a while – Little Mick. Paul Thompson. His Daniel. Graham from Crescent – Last bloody man still out on that street. Best way to let folk know I’m not a fucking scab, he said – Lads all wanting to know what was going on down in London with talks. Not much news in first papers or on radio – Did a quick count of heads. Made sure cars were all full. Brass sorted out. Rang round for them that had overlaid. Click-click – Then off we set. Damp and dark as usual. Radio on as we drove. Bit of music to cheer us up – Nellie the Elephant. Russ bleeding Abbot – Big Chris telling us all jokes he could remember from time he’d seen Black Abbots at Filey. Least it got us to Cortonwood with a smile on our faces. Coppers must have thought we were on happy pills – Lot of them waiting. Krk-krk. Transits and Land-Rovers. Mesh across their windows, Line of police with long shields out across road – Knew we were coming, of course. Knew how many by looks of thing
s, too – Lot of us, though. Three thousand – Three thousand men. One bloody message – No Surrender. Made our point and all – In every face. In every stare. In every shove. In every shout – The Miners. United – Will never be defeated. Maggie, Maggie, Maggie – Out! Out! Out! – Fuck. Keith called round ours on Thursday night. He said, They’re restarting production at Kiveton tomorrow – I know, I said. It’s all over telly – What’s going on, Pete? I don’t know, I said. I’d no idea – No idea what to tell him. Tell anyone – Talks had collapsed. Thatcher had asked for all kinds of written preconditions. Board telling miners to vote with their feet. Looked to be no way out of this for us. Not now – My stomach knotted each time I went down Welfare. I dreaded it – Faces. Questions. Looks. Comments – Kev Shaw sat down. Pete, he said. I’ve got something to say – I know what you’re going to say, I told him. It’s all round village – He nodded. He said, It’s right and all – I shook my head. I said, So don’t waste your breath and my time – Look, he said, you’ve always been right with me and I want to be right with you – Then don’t start scabbing, I said. Not now – He looked at me. He said, I’m going back Monday. Nothing will make me change my mind. I’ve had enough abuse before I’ve even set foot in place. But I’ve seen my kids go without for too long. Wife trying to feed us all on a fiver a week and I’ve had it up to here, Pete. You’ve been decent and you’ve helped us with bills and what-have-you and I’ve no complaints about you and branch. But I’m off back to work on Monday. Come-what-may – Kev, I said. What do you want me to say? You want some kind of bloody dispensation – I’ve done my time, he said. I’ve been on more pickets than most. I nodded. That you have, I said. And now you’re going to piss it all down drain and be known for rest of your life as a scab. He looked away then – First time since he sat down. His eyes didn’t meet mine – This is going to end, I told him. Not going to go on much longer. Might even be over by Tuesday and you’d have scabbed for just twenty-four hour out of eleven month. He looked up. I shook my head. I said, Twenty-four hour, that might be all you’d have scabbed. But for rest of your life you’d be known as Kev the Scab and your kids as the children of Kev the Scab. He looked away again. Down at floor again. I said, You want to be like one of them old blokes that can only have a pint in Sheffield? Places where no one knows he was a scab sixty year ago. You’ve seen that one up at top end. Out by bus stop in all weathers? Kev nodded. You know he was a scab? Kev nodded again. You know how many days he scabbed back then? Kev shook his head. He looked at me. I said, Me neither. That’s my point – it doesn’t matter whether he scabbed through whole strike or just last bloody day – He was a scab then and he’s a scab now – Kev had his eyes closed. He nodded – I leant forward. I put my