by David Peace
‘They keep them in biscuit tins,’ he laughs. ‘Would you believe it? Biscuit tins.’
Neil Fontaine stops for a red light. He glances at his watch then the rearview –
The Jew is wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit, a pale blue shirt and a white silk tie. The Jew has another report to make; another speech to give –
‘There will be no ballot. That much is clear,’ the Jew is saying aloud in the back. ‘The strategy of the committee must be based upon this reality. The Employment Acts have to be kept in reserve. No resort to ballot, no resort to court. In the very unlikely event of a national ballot and an even unlikelier vote for a strike then, and only then, should the Employment Acts be used to protect those areas that will inevitably defy the ballot and continue to work –’
The Jew is practising his speech again. The Jew is out to turn the screw –
He talks to himself in the back of the Mercedes. He talks about Social Security. Talks about the non-payment of benefits. About late payments. He talks about the Electricity and Gas boards. Talks about demanding weekly payments. About cutting the strikers off. He talks about the banks and the building societies. Talks about mortgages –
About repossession –
The Jew wants to turn the screw. To turn it again and again –
Week by week, little by little, day by day, piece by piece –
‘To roll back the frontiers of Socialism for ever, Neil!’
Neil Fontaine stops at the checkpoint at the end of Downing Street.
The Jew puts on a pair of aviator sunglasses and his large-brimmed panama hat. He takes a deep breath. He says, ‘Wish me luck, Neil.’
‘Good luck, sir.’
Neil Fontaine watches the Jew disappear into Number 10, Downing Street.
Neil Fontaine looks at his watch again. He starts the Mercedes –
He has his own screws to turn. Different screws.
Midnight Wednesday into Thursday. Dark side of the moon. They pull up outside Vince’s bungalow. No lights on –
‘Wait here,’ the Mechanic tells Jen.
He gets out. He goes up the drive. Rings his bell. Bangs on his door.
‘Who is it?’ shouts Vince from inside. ‘What do you want?’
‘It’s me,’ the Mechanic says. ‘I want a word.’
Keys turn. Chains fall. Vince Taylor opens the door –
The Mechanic shines the torch full in his face. Vince’s hand goes up –
Vince knows.
‘Dave,’ he says. ‘Put that away.’
‘Vince,’ shouts his wife down the hall. ‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’
‘Nothing, love,’ he says. ‘Go back to sleep.’
The Mechanic lowers the torch.
Vince tightens the belt on his dressing-gown. He looks down the drive. He says, ‘Who you got in the car with you?’
‘Jen.’
‘Fucking hell,’ says Vince.
The Mechanic nods. He says, ‘Schaub? Leslie?’
‘Just Leslie,’ says Vince.
‘Schaub?’
‘Fuck knows.’
‘So where’s Leslie?’
‘He’s afraid, Dave.’
‘We’re all afraid, Vince,’ the Mechanic tells him. ‘Now where is he?’
‘Dave –’
The Mechanic shakes his head. He asks him again, ‘Where is he?’
‘They call it Little America,’ says Vince. ‘But, Dave –’
‘Where is it, Vince?’
‘Atcham on the way to Telford. It’s a disused airfield.’
‘What’s he doing there?’
‘He’s hiding. What you think he’s doing there?’
The Mechanic looks at his watch. He says, ‘Put some clothes on, Vince.’
Vince shakes his head. Vince says, ‘Dave –’
The Mechanic grabs Vince Taylor by his dressing-gown. He says again, ‘Put some fucking clothes on.’
Vince goes to get dressed. Vince comes back out. Vince sits in the front seat –
And off they set.
Thirty minutes later, Vince points to the left –
The Mechanic switches off the headlights. He turns off the main road –
Drives through an industrial estate.
Vince points straight ahead.
There is a fence with a gate and an old USAF sign. A red Escort parked up.
The Mechanic pulls in beside the Escort. He switches off the engine.
The Mechanic turns to Vince in the passenger seat. He says, ‘So where’s Leslie?’
‘Fuck knows,’ says Vince.
The Mechanic grabs Vince Taylor’s fat face in his right hand. He squeezes those pasty cheeks tight together. Turns him towards the backseat –
‘You know who that is?’ the Mechanic asks Vince.
Vince nods.
‘That’s the woman I love,’ the Mechanic tells him. ‘So don’t speak like that in front of her.’
Vince nods again.
The Mechanic pushes Vince’s head back into the side-window. Lets him go.
Vince holds his face. He says, ‘I’m sorry, Dave.’
‘Right,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Then let’s go and find Leslie.’
They all get out into the dark. The cold and the rain.
‘Shall we split up?’ asks Vince.
The Mechanic switches the torch on. He shines it in Vince’s face –
Vince puts his hand up again.
‘Vince,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Splitting up is always a mistake.’
Vince shrugs and opens the gates.
They start walking towards the airstrip and an old control tower.
Vince cups his mouth in his hands. He shouts, ‘Leslie! It’s me, Vince!’
Nothing.
‘Leslie! It’s me, Vince,’ he shouts again. ‘Dave and Jen are here with me.’
‘There,’ says Jen. She points at a light flashing on and off up ahead.
They wave their torches at the signal. They walk towards it.
Leslie is standing in front of a small shed. He is shaking. He drops to his knees. He looks up at them –
‘It was fucking Julius,’ he sobs. ‘He only went to put back them fucking knickers. I told him not to. But he thought you were going to hurt him again. Then he was inside and she come home. I went to help him. But –’
They stand in a semicircle. They look down on Leslie.
He looks up again –
‘He lost it.’
‘Where are they now, Leslie?’ the Mechanic asks him.
‘I don’t know. I swear. Really. I don’t. I went upstairs. I didn’t want any part of it. I went back to the car. I didn’t know what to do. Then Julius come back out with her. Took her off in her car. That was last I saw of him. Them.’
The Mechanic squats down next to Leslie. He takes Leslie’s face in his hands –
The Mechanic holds it up to his –
Little Leslie is crying.
The Mechanic wipes away Leslie’s tears. He looks into his eyes.
‘I swear that’s all I know,’ says Leslie.
The Mechanic lets go of Leslie’s face. He stands up.
Vince is staring at the Mechanic.
The Mechanic nods.
Vince spits into the ground.
‘What?’ says Leslie. ‘Vince? What is it?’
‘You two wait here,’ the Mechanic tells Vince and Leslie.
The Mechanic takes Jen’s hand. They walk back to the Rover.
‘Lock the doors,’ the Mechanic tells her. ‘Put the radio on.’
Jen nods. She gets in. She locks the doors. She puts the radio on. Loud.
The Mechanic goes to the back of the Rover. He opens the boot –
Takes out the spade.
*
Terry Winters walked the floors and corridors of St James’s House. His ear to the doors, he listened to the voices. The telephones ringing. The typewriters –
Terry was the boss now. The big man –
The President had left him in charge. The President was touring the coalfields. The President was making certain that the lessons had been learnt. That through solid unity and with more trade union support, pits and jobs could be saved. The Tory anti-trade union legislation resisted. That now was no longer the time to ballot. Now no longer the time when the Haves could stop the Have-nots fighting to save their homes and their communities. Their jobs and their pits –
There were standing ovations. There were songs in his name –
Autographs for the wives and kids. Big boots to fill for Terry Winters –
Terry called meetings. Asked for briefings. Terry demanded updates. Analysis.
The President would call. The President would need to know –
Not tomorrow. Today. Now.
Terry Winters sat bolt upright at his desk under the large portrait of the President. Terry waited for the phone to ring. For the President’s call –
At five o’clock, it rang.
Terry picked it up. Click-click. Terry said, ‘Chief Executive speaking.’
‘Hello, Chief Executive,’ she said. ‘Guess who?’
Terry swallowed. He said, ‘Diane?’
‘Who’s a clever boy then?’
‘How did you get this number?’
She paused. She said, ‘Well, if you’re going to be like that –’
Terry stood up behind his desk. He said into the phone, ‘No, wait.’
‘You gave it to me,’ she said. ‘Remember?’
Terry nodded. He said, ‘Of course.’
‘Guess what?’ she said. ‘I’ve got a present for the Chief Executive.’
‘For me?’
‘But you have to guess what it is,’ she giggled.
‘I –’
‘I’m looking at it right now. I’m touching it.’
‘I –’
‘I’ll give you another hint,’ she whispered. ‘It’s wet and it’s waiting for you.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Now that would be telling,’ she laughed.
‘Where?’ he screamed.
‘I’m sat at the bar of the Hallam Towers Hotel, holding your vodka and tonic.’
Terry Winters hung up. Terry dialled Theresa. Click-click. He told Theresa lies. Terry hung up again. He got his coat. He switched off the lights. Terry locked the door. He went down the corridor. He took the stairs –
Two at a time.
There was a Tweed at reception. The Tweed said, ‘In a hurry are we, Comrade?’
‘No,’ said Terry. ‘Just off to meet the wife.’
‘Now, why don’t I believe you, Comrade?’ smiled the Tweed.
‘What?’ said Terry. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just pulling your leg, Comrade,’ laughed the Tweed. ‘Just pulling your leg.’
Terry Winters left the building. He ran up the street to the underground car park. He drove out to Hallam Towers. He sucked mints all the way there –
Two at a time.
Terry ran through the lobby into the bar.
Diane was sitting on a high stool with her legs crossed. She pushed the vodka and tonic towards him. She put her right hand on the inside of Terry’s right thigh. She said, ‘I’m afraid the ice has melted. It went all warm and wet.’
Terry Winters took off his glasses. Terry put them in his jacket pocket. He smiled.
Diane leant forward. She whispered, ‘Fuck me before dinner. Upstairs. Now.’
Terry nodded. He said, ‘Without me, they’d be bankrupt already.’
Diane rubbed her fingers over his lips. She said, ‘You talk too much, Comrade.’
*
The Mechanic needs time to think this through. Space. He drops Jen off at her sister’s. Goes in with her just to make sure. He picks up the dogs from his mother’s. Goes back to his. Theirs. He makes a couple of calls. Makes sure he’ll be rid of the Rover first thing tomorrow. He has another shower. Another drink –
The Mechanic lies on his bed. Their bed. He switches on the news –
‘An elderly woman has been found brutally murdered in the Shropshire countryside. The seventy-nine-year-old rose grower and anti-nuclear campaigner was –’
They will want answers. Then they’ll want silence.
Martin
she shouts. You’re all bloody blind. I get up from table. I say, Do you want a lift in? Listen to you, she laughs. How long you think you’ll be able to keep car? I say, They give us petrol money – Aye, he’ll pay you when you picket for him, she says. I shake my head. Do you want a lift in or not? He going to pay your tax, your MOT? He going to pay for your tyres, your radiator? You’ll have driven it into ground before he’s finished with it. You’ll be no bloody use to him then. See how much he pays you then – Bugger her. I put on my coat. I go outside. I get car out of garage. I sit in drive for a bit. She doesn’t come out – Bloody bugger her. I set off into Thurcroft. Go down Welfare. I’m very early. I wish I’d put my name down for either days or nights now. Not fucking afternoons. Pete comes in. Asks if I fancy going into Doncaster with him. Coal House. Too right, I do. Get there just before eight. There are only a couple of coppers. Krk-krk. Hundred-odd of us – Parkas. Kagools. Boots. Trainers – Coppers on their walkie-talkies. Krk-krk. Shitting it. NCB staff turn up about quarter-past to half-past eight. Police everywhere now. There’s usual shoving. Shouting. Scuffles. Most of NCB staff take one look and go home. One–nil to us. Pete and me drive on over to Bentinck – Reality. Windows down. Roadblock fucking City. Krk-krk. Have you heard what I was telling them other lads? Pete shakes his head. No, he says. I have not – We know you are peaceful, says copper. But if you carry on you’ll be arrested because you’re liable to cause a breach of the peace. What? says Pete. So if we just drive on towards colliery, then we’ll be arrested? Aye, says copper. You will. So don’t bother. Day 22. Bred into them, John is saying on A18. They’re not Union men. Never have been. You’ve seen their houses. Their cars. Remember me dad telling our Kevin, Work down there and you’ll end up a scab – Rich like, but a scab. That was fifteen, twenty year back. They’re all, Fuck you, I’m all right Jack, says Tony. Always have been – Fucking incentive schemes, says Michael. Made it worse. Remember that fucking ballot? John laughs. They were completely outvoted. Cunts just ignored result and went their own sweet fucking way as usual. Now them same cunts want another vote, says Michael. Long as it suits them, says Tony. If it didn’t, they’d just sod us anyway, says John. Bred into them. I say, Aye-up. Company. Fucking hell, says John. Not again. I pull over. I wind down window. Krk-krk. Where you going? Fishing – Fuck off – That’s not very nice, says John. I don’t give a shit, says copper. You’re pickets and I want to know where you’re going? I say again, We’re off fishing. Get out, he says. I get out – Driver’s licence – I hand it over. Rest of you, out, he says. John, Tony and Michael get out of car. Two other coppers come up. One of them takes down registration. Other takes keys out of ignition. He goes round back, opens up boot. You got a warrant to do that, have you? asks Tony. Why? asks copper. Got something to fucking hide, have you? I think they have, sir, says one with his head in my boot. He stands up, six small logs in his arms. One with driver’s licence in his hands, he’s shaking his head. Now what have we here? he asks. They look like offensive weapons to me. I look at him and smile. He throws my driver’s licence down on road. You’ve got ten minutes to get back to Yorkshire, Mr Daly of Hardwick – Or what? asks John. Or you’re all fucking nicked. Day 25. Cath wants to go over to her sister’s. She lives just outside Lincoln. Place called Branston. It’s a straight run down A57. We get on road after breakfast. I want to try to get there and back before National starts. We pass Shireoaks and are just by first turn off into Worksop when I see all cones across road. Them parked up in a lay-by. Krk-krk. Crowbars and cameras out. Smile. They wave us over to side. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He taps on glass. I wind down window. Where you going? Lincoln. Why? See her sister. Where you live? Hardwick. Where’s that? Just back up there.
Near Thurcroft, says Cath. What you do? You what? Your job? I’m a miner. Are you now? he says. Thurcroft? I nod. Working, are you? What’s that to you? He shakes his head. Turn your vehicle around, he says. What?
The Fourth Week
Monday 26 March – Sunday 1 April 1984
Theresa Winters woke Terry up. She had made him porridge. Scrambled eggs on toast. She stuck the kids in the back of the car. Half asleep. She dropped him at the station.
Terry stood on the platform. He stamped his feet. He rubbed his hands together. He had a first-class seat on the first train down.
The train was ten minutes late.
Terry found his seat. He ordered coffee. Breakfast. He checked his files:
National Coal Board vs National Union of Mineworkers: NCB High Court action against the NUM’s pension-fund investment policy.
Terry checked his notes:
Union constitutionally opposes investment of funds overseas and in industries that compete with coal.
He checked his sums:
£84.8 million annual contributions from members; £151.5 million from the NCB; £22.4 million in pensions and £45.2 million lump-sum payments to be paid annually; £200 million for investment.
The President would be representing the Union. Himself. The President would be conducting their defence. Personally. The President would be waiting for Terry. Himself. The President would be counting on Terry –
Personally.
Terry put away the file. He picked up the complimentary copy of The Times:
More miners join strike as pickets increase; BSC cutbacks 50% at Scunthorpe; Miner found hanged –
Terry felt sick. Terry looked at his watch. Terry changed carriages –
Terry sat at a table in second class as the train pulled into King’s Cross.
Terry Winters knew they would be waiting for him. Watching him.
*
‘These people need our help‚’ says the Jew again –
‘They are putting concrete blocks and metal poles across their roads. They are smashing their windscreens and slashing their tyres. They are urinating in plastic bags and throwing them at these people as they try to go to work.’