GB84

by David Peace

  Neil Fontaine leaves Humberside and Lincolnshire. He drives in circles through the lawless Yorkshire borderlands with Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire. The back roads. He passes the reserves parked up in their buses and their vans –

  Suddenly Neil Fontaine brakes hard. He swerves across two lanes. Lands in the lay-by –

  Roundheads lead their horses across the road. Bloody. They are beaten. In retreat. The steam rises from the backs of their horses to meet the rain. To wash away the battle.

  Neil Fontaine blinks. He starts the car. He pulls out of the lay-by. Back to Orgreave –

  Neil Fontaine has orders for the South Yorkshire Brass on the passenger seat. Signed orders from her. Sealed by the Jew. To be hand-delivered –

  Mass arrests. Serious charges. Restrictive bail conditions –

  This is what she wants. This is what she’ll get –

  She always gets what she wants.

  Neil Fontaine stands on the roof in the rain. He looks through his brand-new binoculars at the allied forces. He watches the horseboxes unload 32 police horses; the Transits unload 2200 officers in 96 PSUs. He looks through his brand-new binoculars at the enemy hordes. He watches the President of the National Union of Mineworkers. He watches him walk alone down the hill –

  The grey trousers. The black anorak. The navy baseball cap. The rain in his face –

  Neil Fontaine has him in his sights.

  *

  The scabs had won their right to scab. Official. Legal. But no one seemed to care. Notice. Only Terry. The focus had switched. Orgreave. Everything was Orgreave now. Everything had to be done to close Orgreave. It would be the Saltley Gate of this dispute. The turning point. It was a matter of pride. Three miles from the Union’s headquarters. On their own doorstep. Matter of history. The Orgreave coke supplied Anchor. Anchor. The steel complex at Scunthorpe which had been the scene of the Little Saltley of 1974. The President reminded everyone it was his success here in 1974 that had brought down Heath and the Tories. It was a matter of destiny –

  His destiny –

  The President had done it once. The President would do it again –

  This time he would do it alone. This time he had no choice.

  The ISTC at Rotherham had refused to black the Orgreave coke.

  The President ranted. The President raved –

  The President couldn’t tell the difference between union and management –

  Management and government –

  Government and police –

  Police and –

  Terry looked up from his calculator. Paul Hargreaves was staring at him again.

  Must not sleep. The days of the week are seven pits. Fifty days without her. Fifty nights. Routine now. This loss. These minutes. These hours. These days –

  The telephone is ringing –

  Fifty days. Fifty nights. Must not sleep. Seven pits –

  The Mechanic answers the phone.

  They pick him up at Scotch Corner. Black Transit. Four in the back.

  They give him a donkey jacket. Stickers. Badges. A sports bag –

  Smoke-bombs. Fire-crackers. Thunder-flashes –

  Ball-bearings.

  They drive him down to Sheffield. They drop him in a suburb called Handsworth.

  He walks up Handsworth Road. Police everywhere.

  There are a couple of Union men stood about in stickers and badges with a clipboard and a loud-hailer. They call him over. They ask him, ‘Where you from?’

  ‘Selby,’ he tells them.

  They say, ‘Straight up road. Mind yourself now. Pigs are dishing it out.’

  The Mechanic nods. He heads up the road –

  Disappears from view. Disappears into the war –

  Man can lose himself in a war. Man can disappear –

  Bide his time. Lie low. Pick his moment. To advance or to retreat –

  The decision his. The choice –

  Lucky man, lost.

  The President was black from the battle. He sat at the end of the table. Maps before him. There had been over 2000 pickets; 84 arrests; 69 in hospital; 1000 tonnes moved.

  Paul was in his suit. Terry in his suit. Mike in his.

  Joan put a cup of tea down on the table next to the maps. The President was writing notes on scraps of paper. Putting the scraps in envelopes. Putting the envelopes in his pocket. He spoke as he wrote. Spoke about Saltley and Grunwick. Mao Zedong and Che Guevara. Chile and Bolivia –

  Spoke of the thousands that would come tomorrow.

  ‘The Board want to talk,’ whispered Paul in his ear. ‘Talk concessions.’

  The President looked up. He nodded. He smiled. He said, ‘I bet they bloody do.’

  ‘What do I tell them?’ asked Paul.

  The President put his baseball cap back on. He said, ‘Tell them we’ll be there.’

  Paul picked up his papers. Paul left the room.

  The President stood up.

  Len said, ‘They’ll arrest you if you go back there.’

  The President adjusted his baseball cap. The President nodded.

  Len asked, ‘Will you go easy then, or do you go hard?’

  ‘Hard,’ said the President.

  *

  Neil Fontaine stands outside the door to the Jew’s suite on the fourth floor of Claridge’s. He listens to the telephones ring and the laughter rise inside. The corks pop and the glasses chink. The bottles break. He waits for them to stagger out. To stick twenty-pound notes in the top pocket of his blazer. Run hands through his hair and pat him on the back. Neil Fontaine stands outside the Jew’s suite on the fourth floor of Claridge’s and misses how the angels sing –

  The lighting of the corridor. The shadow on the wall –

  His wings –

  Neil Fontaine stands outside the Jew’s suite. He listens to the devils –

  Inside.

  *

  Monk Fryston, North Yorkshire. Terry and Paul sat in the hotel lobby and waited. Tommy from the Board tried to make small talk. Did they want a quick game of pool to kill the time? A game of pool in a posh hotel while their members were being beaten. Their members were being nicked. Their members were being charged –

  Their President lifted. Their President arrested –

  Their President jailed.

  Terry and Paul shook their heads. They looked at their watches –

  Everyone had had enough.

  The police had had enough; the police wanted the Board to go back to court –

  For injunctions.

  The Board had had enough; the Board wanted to talk conciliation –

  Concessions.

  Everyone had had enough. Everyone except the President –

  They were on the verge of the greatest industrial success in post-war Britain!

  The President and the Prime Minister –

  Insatiable, thought Terry. The pair of them. Terry looked at his watch again –

  The President had been bailed. Len and Dick gone to pick him up –

  Len and Dick to drive him straight here. Then the talks could restart.

  Paul got up. He went to use the telephone.

  Terry looked at Tommy. Tommy winked. Terry looked away, out of the window –

  The President’s car was coming up the drive.

  Terry stood up. Terry went out to the hotel steps. Tommy followed him.

  The President got out of the car. He looked up at Terry. He looked up at Tommy –

  The President put his wrists together. He held them up in invisible cuffs –

  He said, ‘Great Britain – 1984.’

  Peter

  The Panel, Silverwood – I was a delegate from Thurcroft Strike Committee; delegate took his orders from South Yorkshire Panel at Silverwood; South Yorkshire Panel took its orders from Yorkshire Area Strike Co-ordinating Committee at Barnsley, along with other three Yorkshire panels; Strike Co-ordinating Committee took its orders from National Co-ordinating Committee in Sheffield. In theory – Fat fuck
ing chance. It was a bloody mess – Fuck him, shouted Johnny. It’s a waste of time and manpower – Johnny, Johnny, said Derek. He’s President of bloody Union – I don’t give a shit if he’s Queen of fucking Sheba. He’s wrong – Unity is strength, Comrade. Unity is strength – Aye, Johnny nodded. And blind bloody loyalty is sheer fucking stupidity. Lads in Notts are under more pressure than us. That’s where we should fucking be. Even if we did close Orgreave, wouldn’t mean anything. We won’t win without Nottingham. We can’t – Johnny, Johnny – Nottinghamshire and power stations. That’s where we should be. Not hitting same place every bloody day. Just plain daft, that. Banging your head against a brick bloody wall. Surprise them. One day here. One day not. Keep them guessing. Not us, though. Like an open fucking book, us lot. Derek turned to me. Derek said, You tell him. Make him see sense, Pete – But I had my fingers in my ears. My eyes closed – I’d had world on my back for thirty years. Thirty years I’d carried it. We all had – That was what we did. We were miners – Not pickets. Not thugs. Not hooligans. Not criminals – We were miners. The National Union of Mineworkers – Trade unionists and miners. Thirty years I’d carried it, but I’d carry it no more – Not for likes of MacGregor. Not for likes of Thatcher – It was time to put it down. Put it down and stand – In lines. Under sky – Black and blue. Shoulder to shoulder – But I’d come down to Panel each day for one. I’d sit in this hall and listen to them argue toss about this pit or that – Power stations or depots. Wharves or offices – I’d get our envelope. Our orders – Be back at Welfare for five at best. Never less than fifteen folk waiting for a word – I’d try to sort them out. Do what I could – Then I’d open envelope. Orders – Work out cars. Mini-buses. Vans. Ring round. Click-click. Have drivers in for eight. Tell them who was in with who and have them meet us all back at Welfare for two in morning. Give out instructions. Maps. Petrol money. Quid for going. Send them on their way – Young lads, most of them. Send them on their way to places they’d never been until three month ago. Places where they’d stand about without direction – Without guidance. Leadership – Send them on their way to get beaten or nicked. Krk-krk. Or bored to death – Same with afters. Same with nights – Then back I’d go again next day and Barnsley SCC would sit there and ask Panel why more weren’t out picketing and Silverwood Panel would come back and ask us delegates why more weren’t out picketing and Thurcroft delegate would tell them why more weren’t out picketing – Because they got nicked. Krk-krk. Because they got beaten. Krk-krk. Because they’d got no leadership. Because they’d got no money. No strike pay. No nothing – So they were working other jobs to feed their wives and kids. Why fuck did they think more weren’t out picketing? Pete, Pete – Don’t Pete, Pete me, I told them. I had one of mine knocked unconscious last Friday at Orgreave. Mate of mine called Martin Daly. He was purple in face. Fucking couldn’t find a pulse. Eyes in top of his head. Thought he was dead. This fucking copper hadn’t given him kiss of life, he might be. Three times he give him it. This same copper tells me not to take him to hospital in Sheffield or Rotherham because he’ll be nicked. Had to drive him all way up to Donny. Kept him in overnight. I went round his house to see him couple of days ago. His wife stands at door with pan of boiling fucking water – That’s what she thinks of us. This bloody Union. This fucking strike – I got my jacket. I stormed out – Back again next day like. Every day – Panel. Lads had been going back into Nottinghamshire all week. Some of them staying over a couple of nights. Been going well – Yorkshire Gala on Saturday and Sunday – but it was all

  The Fourteenth Week

  Monday 4 – Sunday 10 June 1984

  Neil Fontaine pulls out into the traffic. Claridge’s to Downing Street. The sky is grey. Sirens wail. Armed police stand on every corner –

  Ronnie’s riding into town.

  The Jew is in the back. In the saddle. The Jew is ranting –

  ‘They think they’re winning,’ he shouts. ‘They actually think they’re winning.’

  The Jew waves newspapers around the backseat –

  ‘And these clowns believe them,’ he laughs. ‘They actually believe them.’

  The Jew throws his head back. Puts his hands through his hair –

  ‘So will the bloody Board,’ he moans. ‘And so will half the fucking Cabinet.’

  Neil Fontaine stops at the end of Downing Street.

  The Jew sighs. He reaches for his aviator sunglasses and a large white umbrella. He takes a deep breath. He is here to set the record straight –

  ‘Wish me luck, Neil,’ he says.

  ‘Good luck, sir.’

  Neil Fontaine watches the Jew disappear into Downing Street –

  The War Cabinet.

  He looks at the clock in the dashboard. He starts the Mercedes –

  He takes a deep breath of his own. He has his own records to set straight.

  Jerry and Roger are side by side in the dining room of the Special Services Club. They are looking at christening photographs.

  Neil Fontaine sits down. He glances at the photographs. He recognizes faces –

  Famous faces in private places.

  Roger puts the photos in an envelope. He licks it shut. He looks up at Neil.

  Jerry drums his fingers on the white linen tablecloth. Jerry leans forward. He says, ‘It isn’t getting any less complicated, is it, Neil?’

  Neil Fontaine doesn’t say anything. Neil Fontaine waits.

  Jerry leans back –

  Roger leans forward. Roger places his hands on the table. Roger stares up at Neil. ‘Unfortunately,’ he says, ‘despite all your protestations, Jerry and I still do not share your conviction that our friends failed to find anything.’

  Neil Fontaine waits.

  ‘However,’ says Jerry, ‘it would appear the panic upstairs has abated. A touch.’

  ‘A touch,’ repeats Roger. ‘For now.’

  Neil Fontaine waits.

  Jerry watches Neil Fontaine’s face. He drums his fingers on the tablecloth again. He says, ‘Roger and I feel now would be a good time to draw a line under certain …’

  ‘People,’ says Roger.

  Neil Fontaine waits.

  Jerry says, ‘No more loose ends, Neil. Please?’

  ‘Present company excepted, of course,’ adds Roger.

  Neil Fontaine stares back across the tablecloth into their eyes –

  Their endless lying, lidless fucking eyes –

  Neil Fontaine smiles at Jerry and Roger. Neil Fontaine says, ‘Of course.’

  Jerry says, ‘Roger and I do feel the Mechanic has served his purpose.’

  ‘Dixon is not going to be very happy,’ adds Roger. ‘We know that.’

  Neil Fontaine shrugs. Neil Fontaine says, ‘The policeman’s lot.’

  Jerry laughs. He lifts up his napkin. He pushes an envelope across the tablecloth –

  Roger puts a hand on it. He stops it. He taps it –

  ‘Both of them,’ he says. ‘Hand in hand into one last sunset.’

  Neil Fontaine nods.

  ‘Both of them,’ Roger repeats. ‘No loose ends, Neil.’

  Neil Fontaine nods again. He picks up the envelope. He stands up. He stops now –

  ‘Aren’t we all forgetting someone?’ he asks.

  Jerry raises a hand. He makes a hook. He says, ‘Leave the Tinkerbell to us.’

  ‘Jerry and I are very fond of our fairy friends,’ adds Roger, with a wink.

  Neil Fontaine stares back at them. Neil says, ‘He can hear things.’

  ‘We know that,’ laughs Jerry. ‘It’s his bloody job, Neil. Why we hired him.’

  Neil Fontaine smiles. Neil Fontaine bows. Neil Fontaine leaves them to it –

  He gets the car. He looks at the clock. He leaves for Downing Street –

  The War Cabinet dissolves –

  Neil Fontaine holds open the door.

  The Jew gets in the back. The Jew shakes his head.

  Neil Fontaine sits behind the steering wheel. He looks into the
rearview mirror –

  Muscles strain. Leather. Teeth snarl. Chains –

  ‘Call off the dogs‚’ says the Jew. ‘Call off the dogs, Neil.’

  Malcolm Morris drank instant coffee. Malcolm Morris smoked duty-free cigarettes –

  Malcolm Morris watched and Malcolm Morris listened –

  ‘– pick us up by Asda. What he said. But did he? Did he heck as like –’

  Every minute. Every hour. Every day. Every week. Every month –

  Malcolm Morris went to his office. Malcolm Morris worked at his desk –

  On the fourth floor opposite NUM Headquarters, St James’s House, Sheffield –

  ‘– scab on her knee was as big as a plate, it was. Should have heard her –’

  Every minute. Every hour. Every day. Every week –

  The lenses leered. Smile. The tapes turned –

  Cameras clicked and recorders recorded –

  ‘– I tell you, Rita. I see more of him on telly than in our own home –’

  Every minute. Every hour. Every day –

  The shadows on the screens. Smile. The whispers in the wires –

  The stake-outs and the phone-taps –

  ‘– Orgreave, they reckon. Big push again, Bomber said. Boots on –’

  Every minute. Every hour –

  ‘– thinks he must have been Special Branch. Paint-stripper. Lot of it and all –’

  Every minute –

  Every single minute of every single hour of every single day of every single week on the taxpayer’s clock –

  Operation Vengeance.

  *

  Skull. Candle. Clock. Mirror. Neil Fontaine moves across the floor. Carpet. Towels. Sheets. Starlight across the wallpaper. Curtains. Fixtures. Fittings. Shadow across bone. Hands. Hair. Boots across the room. Building. Town. Country –

  She doesn’t move.

  Neil Fontaine sits in the dark with one curtain open. He thinks about legerdemain; the sleights of hand and the juggling –