GB84

by David Peace

  Monday 16 – Sunday 22 April 1984

  Terry couldn’t keep up. He was exhausted. Diane was too much for him. She was insatiable. He fell over onto his back. He was out of breath. He hurt. She rolled on top of him. She mounted him. She rode him. He groaned. He moaned. She smiled. She laughed. He cried out. She screamed. He came. She lay beside him. He had his eyes closed. She took his cock in her hand. He opened his eyes. She stroked his cock. He closed his eyes again. She whispered, ‘You got a codeword for him, Mr Chief Executive?’

  *

  The traffic out of London is a nightmare. Roadblocks at junctions. Helicopters overhead. Sirens. The Jew sits in the back of the Mercedes. He gets his updates on the car phone. He orders flowers for the dead policewoman’s family. Flowers to mark the place where she was slain. Felled by a single shot from the Libyan People’s Bureau in St James’s Square, South West One.

  Neil Fontaine fiddles with the frequencies on the radio:

  ‘– pursuing its domestic policy, the government relies on the aid of the security service which cynically manipulates the definition of subversion and thus abuses its charter so as to investigate and interfere in the activities of legitimate political parties, the trades union movement, and other progressive organizations. Bettaney’s solicitor went on –’

  Neil Fontaine changes channels again. He puts his foot down on the motorway.

  The Jew looks out of the windows of the Mercedes. He gets excited as they approach Sheffield again. He talks of the body politic. He talks of the soul politic –

  She has given him new orders –

  New orders from the New Order –

  New orders to follow. New orders to give.

  Neil Fontaine has his own orders –

  Old orders.

  *

  Terry knew the President blamed him. The situation was extremely dangerous and nobody dared predict what would happen next. The families would not be starved back. Troops could be used to move coal stocks –

  The greatest good for the greatest number.

  The situation was extremely dangerous and the President blamed Terry. Blamed him for everything. Terry had told the President he’d take care of it –

  Take care of everything. Terry had told the President they would win –

  They had lost.

  Terry put his forehead against the window of his office. Terry closed his eyes. Terry knew the President blamed him. Blamed him. Blamed him –

  Back to the Big House for Terry.

  The phone on the desk rang again. It never fucking stopped –

  South Wales called him at least twice a day with questions about the injunction. Click-click. They were not alone. Legal questions. Financial questions. Endless fucking questions –

  It pissed him off –

  Terry had done what he had to do. Terry had done his job –

  Why couldn’t they?

  Terry thought this would be Clive calling again. Clive Cook called constantly. Clive confused the codes. Clive forgot the codes. Clive ignored the codes. Clive cried –

  ‘I don’t know how much more of this I can take.’

  Terry Winters thought Clive Cook might well have been a very poor choice.

  Terry picked up the phone. Click-click. He said, ‘The Chief Executive speaking.’

  ‘Terry? Thank Christ for that. It’s Jimmy. I’m trying to get hold of the President. No one will tell me where he is. What’s going on?’

  ‘Not allowed to give out information over the phone. New directive.’

  ‘Fucking hell, Tel. This is urgent. You seeing him?’

  ‘I’d like to tell you, but then –’

  ‘Look, just listen. I’m down in London. We’ve just come out of a JPA meeting. The Board have just told us they’re willing to sit down with you all. Talk. Face to face. No messing about. I’m trying to set something up for next Tuesday –’

  ‘What’s to bloody talk about? He was on Weekend World saying they should use troops to move stocks. Told Jimmy Young he’d got more constructive things to do with his time than talk to us. There’s Tebbit all over the papers talking about denationalization. You’d be wasting the President’s time, Jimmy –’

  ‘Terry, listen. No compulsory redundancies and they’ll drop their initial timetable. That’s a fucking climbdown in anybody’s book. It’s a victory for us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘For the whole movement. For the NUM and NACODS. For the President.’

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘I’ve got a letter from them saying what I just told you. But they want a response. And they want it as soon as possible. Then we’ll talk about setting the time and the place. But I do need to speak to the President.’

  Terry drummed his fingers on the desk. He said, ‘Get their letter to me by courier. I’ll make sure the President sees it –’

  ‘He’ll thank you, Terry.’

  ‘I’ll ensure you have our response by the end of the day,’ said Terry. ‘Personally.’

  ‘You’re a hero, Comrade,’ said the man from NACODS. ‘A real hero, Terry.’

  Terry put down the phone. Terry stood up. Terry smiled to himself –

  Terry knew the President blamed him. Blamed him for everything –

  But not for long.

  Good Friday will be the Führer’s birthday. Ninety-five years old –

  Happy birthday, Uncle Alf.

  Ten days of feasting and festivities until the finale in the Walpurgisnacht fires –

  The rehearsals will have already begun.

  The Mechanic drives through Evesham onto Cirencester, across to Stroud and up to Cheltenham. This is the heart. The secret heart. The dark heart.

  The Cotswolds. The Norfolk Broads. The West Coast of Scotland –

  These are the places. The secret places. The dark places.

  The Mechanic looks for the signs. The secret signs. The dark signs –

  He finds them. Remembers.

  This is the place. The secret place. The darkest place –

  The Estate. The Big House –

  Wewelsburg.

  He parks well away. Lets the dogs out. He goes to the boot of the car. Takes out the rucksack. He puts it on. Whistles. The dogs come back. He feeds them. Locks them in the car. The windows open just a crack. He walks through the fields. The streams –

  He comes to the trees. The leaves. He sits in the tall grass. He waits –

  Is she sleeping. In the dark? Is she waking. In the light?

  He watches the back of the house. The grounds through the binoculars –

  The marquee is up. The fairy lights on.

  It’ll be night. Darker still soon –

  The generals in the house with their Wagner and their Bruckner under the portraits of Robert K. Jeffrey and A. K. Chesterton, the troops drunk in the grounds singing their songs about nig-nogs and wogs under the Fylfot and St George bunting –

  Just because you don’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not here –

  And he’d be here somewhere.

  The Mechanic watches. The Mechanic waits –

  The music stops. The rehearsal starts –

  The doors from the house to the grounds are opened. The trolley is wheeled out. The fake swastika cake revealed. Ninety-five unlit candles –

  The birthday boy with the party knife in his hand –

  Uncle Adolf played by Julius Schaub, a.k.a. Martin Peter Cooper.

  The Mechanic gets the car. The dogs.

  Terry couldn’t keep up. He was exhausted. Christopher and Timothy were too fast for him. They were incorrigible. Louise fell over on the flagstones. She started to cry. She looked around for her daddy. Terry stopped chasing after the boys and the football. He walked back across the lawn. Louise pointed at the graze on her knee. Terry bent down. He kissed it better. He picked her up. He held her. Theresa came out of the house. She was carrying a tray of barley water. Ice clinked in the glasses. She looked at Terry –

  She didn’t
speak. She never did. Theresa Winters just smiled –

  He didn’t speak either. He never dared. Terry Winters just smiled back –

  He winked at his wife. He was going to amaze them all.

  *

  Last week was a dress rehearsal for the main event. The aperitif for today’s main course. Neil Fontaine has dressed for this dinner in a donkey jacket. He helps the Jew into his –

  NCB on the back.

  The Jew stands in the middle of his hotel suite in the donkey jacket. He says, ‘When in Rome, eh, Neil?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir.’

  ‘Chop-chop then,’ says the Jew. ‘Let’s not miss their Nero and his games.’

  Neil Fontaine escorts the Jew downstairs. They walk through the hotel lobby They step out into the bright Sheffield sunshine.

  The Jew puts on his sunglasses. He looks up at the helicopters.

  Neil Fontaine leads the Jew through the deserted backstreets. Towards the noise. Neil Fontaine leads him to the Memorial Hall. Towards the chants –

  This is what the Jew has come back to see:

  The Special Delegate Conference of the National Union of Mineworkers.

  Seven thousand men on the streets. One single message on their lips –

  Their badges and their banners:

  No ballot.

  The Jew waits in the shadows. Neil Fontaine stands behind him.

  The Jew watches the crowd. The Jew listens to the crowd –

  Listens to their cheers. Their thunderous cheers.

  The Jew watches the speakers. The Jew listens to the speakers –

  Speech after speech from speaker after speaker –

  Against the government. Against the police. Against the state. Against the law.

  The Jew listens to their reception. Their thunderous reception –

  Not for the Labour Party. Not for parliamentary opposition. Not for democracy –

  But for extra-parliamentary opposition. And for their President.

  They have their victory again and their President has his –

  His victory. His victory speech:

  ‘I am the custodian of the rulebook and I want to say to my colleagues in the Union that there is one rule, above all the rules in the book, and that is when workers are involved in action –

  ‘YOU DO NOT CROSS PICKET LINES IN ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.’

  The Jew listens. The Jew watches –

  He watches their leader lauded. He watches their delegates disperse –

  He watches the men move on –

  To bottles. To stones. To attack the press –

  The banks of photographers. The mass of TV crews.

  To attack the police and the police attack back –

  The pub fights and the snatch squads.

  The Jew in the shadows. Neil Fontaine behind him.

  It is Thursday 19 April 1984 –

  Maundy Thursday –

  ‘But this is not Britain,’ whispers the Jew. ‘This is another Nuremberg.’

  *

  ‘The fuck is this, Winters?’

  Terry looked up from his figures. Paul Hargreaves was standing before his desk. Len Glover in the doorway. Paul holding out a piece of paper –

  A letter. The letter.

  Terry put down his pen. He took off his glasses.

  Len stepped inside. He closed the door.

  ‘Is there a problem, Comrades?’ asked Terry.

  Paul banged the letter down onto Terry’s desk –

  ‘Yes there’s a problem, Comrade,’ he said. ‘The fucking problem is you.’

  ‘Have I done something wrong?’ asked Terry.

  Paul stared at him. He tapped the letter. He said, ‘You changed this.’

  ‘Did I?’ asked Terry. ‘Did I really?’

  Paul reached across the desk to take hold of Terry. Len pulled him back –

  ‘What do you mean, did I?’ shouted Paul. ‘You know fucking well you did. You’re such an arrogant bloody prick, Winters. Arrogant and –’

  ‘Then I apologize,’ said Terry. ‘I apologize to both of you, Comrades.’

  Paul made another lurch towards the desk. Len held him back –

  ‘It was a fucking opportunity and you fucking killed it,’ screamed Paul. ‘Dead. There’s nothing now. No meeting. Nothing. I hope you’re fucking pleased with yourself, Comrade. Dead in the water. Nothing. Fucking satisfied now, Comrade?’

  ‘I made a mistake then,’ said Terry. ‘I thought the President said pit closures and job losses were not negotiable. I thought I was simply restating our position. I’m sorry.’

  Len let go of Paul. Paul stared at Terry Winters –

  Terry smiled at Paul Hargreaves. Terry smiled at Len Glover –

  Len shook his head. Len opened the door. Paul pointed at Terry –

  Paul said, ‘I’m on to you, Winters.’

  Martin

  Martin! Please – Go away, will you? I hate you! I lean my head against door. I say, I’m sorry, I – Just leave me alone for God’s sake, she screams. Leave me alone! I walk down stairs. I get my jacket. I drive into Thurcroft. I go into Welfare. They’re looking for people to go and stay in Nottingham for a couple of days at a time. I have a few drinks and I put my name down. Day 50. Harworth. By half-ten we’re starving. There’s a gap in crowd. Head off down a side-street with Little John and Keith. We go into this newsagent’s that’s got some sandwiches and pies. Got a couple of sausage rolls and a can of pop in my hands when police come in – Three of them. White shirts. No numbers. Met – Krk-krk. What you fucking doing in here? Buying a sausage roll and a can of pop. No, you’re fucking not. Get out. I haven’t paid. You got no money, scum. Get out. But – You fucking deaf as well as thick. Fucking out. Bloke behind counter just stands there. Gob open. We put stuff back. Keith turns to bloke behind counter. Sorry, he says. Shut up and get out, says tit-head. We walk outside – They push us in back. Across road. Now, they say. Pick up them feet. We start over road to field where everyone’s being penned in. Police three deep around them. Miles from scabs and gate. Nearly there when this big shout goes up. Lads are charging towards police with a bloody cricket screen. Police counter-charge. Screen goes straight into about half a dozen of police. Lads scatter. Run over tip at back. Hundred or so police haring after them. Rest of lads push forward – Fences go down. Folk grab posts – We’re just stood there on road behind police line. Police vans coming up behind us. Lorries for pit. Scabs. Scuffles. Stones coming over top – Fuck this, says Little John. We head back down side-street. Turn around. No one behind us. We go in shop again. Bloke behind counter shakes his head. Pick up a sausage roll and a can of pop each. Pay for them double-quick. Go outside and walk off back towards pit – Pitch fucking battle now. Ten thousand men kicking the living fuck out of each other – Like something from bloody Middle Ages. Dark Ages. Three of us just stand there – Mouthfuls of sausage roll. Shitting fucking bricks. Day 51. I phone Pete first thing. Tell him I’m a non-runner. Truth is I don’t fancy it. Not after yesterday. I put breakfast TV on – talking about troops moving coal stocks again. Cath comes down. Stands behind sofa. Not a word. I switch it off. She goes into kitchen. I follow her. I walk over to her. I put my hands round her waist. I say, I’m sorry. She nods. I kiss her hair. I say, Let’s go up to Whitby this weekend. She shakes her head. She’s crying. We can’t afford it, she says. I turn her around. I say, Can’t afford not to. Kip in car if it comes to it. She smiles. First time in a long time. Day 52. Pete called late last night, asked if I was up for it today. Told him I still felt bad. Tell from his voice he didn’t believe us – I don’t care though. Done practically every bloody day since it fucking started. Nerves are in shreds. Don’t even switch on television now. Rather spend day in garden. Least Cath is happy. Have tea ready for when she gets in. Sausages and Smash. Lovely. Go up to bed early, ready for tomorrow. Top of stairs, telephone goes again. I think, Bugger it. Let thing bloody ring. But Cath goes down. Martin, she says. It’s for you. I come back
down stairs. I say, Who is it? She’s got her hand over receiver. Mr Moore from colliery, she says. I take phone from her. I say, This is Martin Daly. Cath doesn’t move. She stands there, watching my face. I listen to him. I say, I don’t know who told you that. Stands there, watching my face. I say, They were wrong. Stands there – Yes, I tell him. I know where you are. Goodnight to you. Watching. You threw us in a pit. I hang up. Day 53. We set off early. Drive up to York. Avoid Ferrybridge. Drax. Them places. Go through Malton. Pickering. Over North York Moors. Beautiful. Lovely pub lunch. Fresh air, windows down in car. Can smell sea fore we see it. Hear gulls. Turn to Cath. Her handkerchief out. Tears down her face – Mine too. You showered us with soil. Day 54. We hold hands. We walk up to Abbey. Find path. We walk to edge. Look over – The sea. The cliffs. The sky. The sun – I want to jump. Take her with me. Fall –

  The Eighth Week

  Monday 23 – Sunday 29 April 1984

  The skull. The candle. The clock and the mirror. Neil Fontaine moves across the floor. The carpet. The towels and the sheets. The light across the wallpaper. The curtains. The fixtures and the fittings. The shadow across the bone. The face. The hands and the hair. The boots across the room. The building. The town and the country –

  Jennifer moves across the bed. The pillow. His name in her dreams.

  She wakes in the light –

  We bury the ones we treasure –

  The door is locked. Neil gone again.

  His head falls forward. Schaub is unconscious. Tied up.

  The Mechanic goes over to the sink. He rinses his right hand under the cold tap. He puts the plug in the hole. He fills the basin. He soaks his knuckle in the sink.

  His head moves. Schaub groans.

  The Mechanic pulls out the plug. He dries his hands on a small towel. He walks over to the telephones. He picks up one of the receivers. He dials the number.

  Julius Schaub moans.

  Neil Fontaine sits in the Mercedes and reads the papers –

  Their President claiming CEGB coal stocks will last only nine more weeks. The TGWU threatening to call a national docks strike if dockers are sacked for supporting striking miners. Their President refusing to meet the Board to discuss the rescheduling of pit closures. The Board launching their back-to-work campaign today.